


Hell of a Nighthorsie

by VeronicaRich



Series: Will Turner's Tortuga Fangirl [1]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, F/M, Gen, Humor, Married Life, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 15:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/pseuds/VeronicaRich
Summary: A Tortugan sailor’s wife gets a glimpse of her life that might’ve been, and it ain’t pretty – or, rather, it’s a little too pretty. Set during CotBP.





	Hell of a Nighthorsie

**Author's Note:**

> First posted in 2007 to LJ.
> 
> [](http://photobucket.com)  
> (This is Prissy.)

Getting progressively angrier, Prissy drained her fourth tankard of ale at the end of the bar. Her eye was fixed on Old Cletus, who had somehow managed to get two of the Faithful Bride’s better-looking whores – that is, the ones who still had most of their teeth and no visible skin conditions – to gather ‘round and listen to whatever verbal horseshit he was shoveling this fine evening.

It _had_ been a fine evening, anyhow, or at least afternoon. Clete had been back from sea for all of six hours, and in that time he’d managed to set a record for offending his wife of rapidly-decreasing patience. His return so early from voyage had been unexpected, and Prissy had been knee-deep in laundering drawers when he threw open the front door and announced, with all the pageantry of a lord returning from the foxhunts, that it was time to fuck.

And, likely, she would have been happy enough to oblige despite his own pungent aroma, had his next words – accompanied by an undignified wrinkling of his nose as he barged into her personal space – not been: “Jesu, Priss, wot th’ bleedin’ hell is that stench?”

After straightening her considerable bulk to put her hands on her hips and look him directly in the eye, she had informed Monsieur Smallcock that she – unlike some lazy sailors – had been working since dawn, in a continuing effort to scrounge up extra money so she wouldn’t have to do so much for the week or so he was in town and could spend it being his loving spouse. She noticed the inch or four of grime coating his body and archly informed Clete that hands which did not scrub off at least half of it would be hands not playing grab-arse with her anytime soon. He’d gotten his dander up, tossed down his bag, and stormed out of their small walkup over the blacksmith’s.

Furiously finishing her washing, Prissy had been so angry she’d foregone her weekly bath and raided Clete’s bag for gold, deliberately ignoring the filthy, salt-encrusted clothes he’d graciously packed for her washboard. Then, she stomped down to the Bride for some drink. She rarely spent coin on such frivolities, but she figured he’d probably spent a good deal of his pay already in other ports, on wine, and song, and … other things, she didn’t care to consider.

Between such dark thoughts and Clete’s steady ignoring of her for the last two hours he’d been at the Bride, she was in no mood for kindness when Captain Jack Sparrow paraded into the joint like he owned it. Rings flashing, skirt billowing, long hair swirling, hips canting, he continued to live up to his image as the darkest-eyed doxy in the tavern – even when he was gone to sea. Dammit, if he didn’t have that moustache and ridiculous little beard, she was willing to bet even straight-arrow Cletus would be trying to fuck him.

She was shaking her head when another person came in directly behind Jack, looking around cautiously, with the stiff bearing of one of the King’s finest and all the suspicious caution of a new virgin whore. He was young, and not nearly as muscular as other men in the Bride, but when he looked around and she caught sight of his face, Lord, was he a sight! Tall, strong-jawed, shabby clothes as neatly buttoned and stockings pulled as high as Tortugan debauchery would allow.

Sparrow turned to say something to him, getting in his face, and Prissy wondered how that bit of fluff had gotten something like this into his bunk. However, when he leaned back, fixing Sparrow with the dubious glare of the uninitiated, and the pirate gave up to shake his head and step around the boy, pointing toward the back room as he did, she happily figured the lad was for the ladies, after all. She watched the young man make his way slowly to the doorway, looking around, hand on the sword strapped to his hip. When he got there, he stuck his head into the back room and then turned quickly, surveying the main area again as he leaned lightly against the doorframe, hands in front, one gripping the other wrist in a wait-and-see pose like some sentry.

Sparrow fluttered in to say something else to him as he passed, causing the boy to look around, obviously puzzled about something. _Well, it doesn’t take much to confuse one at that age_ , she reflected, considering most men twice that age never quite moved beyond it, either. She swallowed, only then realizing she’d been salivating, feeling her skin flush and her body tingle just at the sight of those long legs and slim hips and alert eyes. There was a time Cletus might’ve been that young and ripe, though she hadn’t known him – he’d come to Prissy old and stubborn and already claimed by a love of the sea; she was well aware she was second in line.

But that was fine, because right now, so was Cletus.

Unused to so much drink and visual delight all at once, Prissy eased her bulk off the creaking chair and fluffed herself as best she could – boost the breasts, straighten and uncurl the bottom of the corset under her dress, pull her top a little off her shoulders. She gave a few tugs to her unruly hair and slapped the counter to indicate she wanted a full ale. (It never did to ask for a fresh ale, since nothing in this place had been fresh since Davy Jones was a stripling.)

Weaving across the room, eyes fixed on her prize, Prissy held the tankard aloft. So far, the young fellow hadn’t drank a thing, and she figured the easiest way to start a conversation would be to offer him some refreshment and bat her eyes; that’s what the whores did, and it almost never failed.

In retrospect, she reflected she might’ve gotten further had she at least swiped a washcloth over her face and bosom and changed into a less sweaty blouse – and had she not tripped over her own skirt three feet from the lad and practically crashed into his side. She’d been impressed at how he’d been able to mostly retain his footing against her weight, and at the polite smile he’d offered when she leaned in and flashed him her single pearly white in what she intended to be sensual invitation. He merely kept smiling and looked uncomfortable, but didn’t edge away or shove her off.

“An ale, good shur?” she offered with a slur that surprised her. Maybe four pints _was_ a tad too much.

“No, thank you,” he answered, in a clear, polite voice.

She stared. He had such pretty brown eyes, and a nice smile, even in hesitancy. And he was so clean! She was willing to bet he didn’t even have the pox. Well, that’s why she’d approached him, right? _Aim high, Priscilla!_ “Where’s zhur girl?” she asked boldly, making a point to cast about for any young ladies.

“Um … there’s not.” He cleared his throat. “That is, I don’t have a-“

“Ohhhh!” She tried to cozy up, and ended up nearly knocking him over again. She tried a girlish laugh, and wondered where the accompanying cackling was coming from. She stopped suddenly and looked around, suspicion in her eyes – what cawing doxy was trying to steal her new man?

The boy was talking again. “Madam,” he was saying, gently trying to scoot sideways, away. She got a shoulder into his upper arm, tilting her head back to bat her eyes. She caught a whiff of him, and it reminded her somewhat of the blacksmith shop downstairs. Before she could say anything further, she was pushed back, away from the delectable lad.

“What do ye think yer doin’ wid me woman?”

She blinked. _Cletus?_

He was wedged between her and the boy, barking a storm. “Go on, git now! Don’ you be tryin’ none o’ that whoreson Sparrow’s wiles on me girl, ye young cur!”

Again, to his credit, the young man didn’t move – much. He took a step sideways and nodded in agreement at Cletus, solemnly withdrawing his imaginary suit as Cletus gave him a firm, lord-of-the-manor nod and took Prissy by the upper arm, steering her away from further molesting the lad’s arm.

Cletus paid for their drinks, escorted her home, and roundly fucked her, both against the wall as soon as they got upstairs, and in their slightly-swinging bed. Romantic as his gesture had been, she couldn’t help closing her eyes at one point as he banged away, and breathing in the lingering smoke wafting through the open window from the shop below, imagining it was the lengthy young man between her thighs, instead.

She drifted off on that thought, smiling. He would taste like smoke and metal and clean sweat for a change as he kissed her, curling his tongue around her own, narrow hips canting into her, slow and steady, slowing when she needed faster and prolonging their union. She’d noticed how a loose wisp of hair had been curling against his throat, just beneath a well-shaped ear, and imagined that tie gone, dark, wavy curls tumbling into her face while they fucked. His chest was broad, though he was still too young to be fully developed – she mentally readjusted him for another two or three years, and if she hadn’t been asleep, would’ve fair fainted at the feel of those strong muscles pressing her nipples, rocking against her considerable breasts as he groaned above her and filled her with his prodigious, thick prick, spilling deep into her body as he fixed her with his lusty, dark gaze.

Her mind tumbled through the possibilities, since she was still young enough to get up the duff. She’d have his son – no, twins, twin boys, someone that young and handsome and energetic surely had strong enough seed for a couple at a time. He’d work hard all day, sweating away at the billows and anvil, and they’d have a tidy cottage past the edge of town. Only … not Tortuga. Somewhere else. He’d be young and strong and well-earning, and she’d have half a dozen of his brown-eyed children chasing around the property, laughing and playing and yelling and shrieking, and demanding her attention all the damn time, and she’d have to keep them clean, and _oh dear sweet Jesus on a stick, he’d probably expect_ her _to stay clean, too, because he was so fucking clean himself!_

_Her beautiful, strong, young, lusty, gorgeous, commanding, barking husband strode in after a hard day at the smithy, not a trace of soot on his face or clothes. “What is that smell?” he demanded, glaring accusingly at her and his dirt- and jam-covered brats, all running around and disrupting her life, and oh, Cletus had_ never _wanted children, bless his seafaring little heart, but Monsieur Smallcock was gone and in his place was Monsieur Impeccable, who expected the same level of spotlessness from his wife and two dozen children and his house AND SHE COULDN’T FUCKING TAKE IT ANY LONGER!_

“AAAHHHHHHH!” Prissy floundered her way up out of the nightmare of expectations and perfection, blinking awake just in time to see Clete huffing and grunting and groaning and emptying himself on the tail end of coming, mistaking her limb-waving and terror for satisfaction at a job well-done.

“Ah, yeah, Priss, ‘s the way,” he mumbled, slumping to the side and landing on his back, splayed mostly naked toward the ceiling. “Me girl’s th’ best fuck in Tortuga, an’ always has been,” he muttered, scratching at his belly and shifting to his side to cuddle closer to her side.

Prissy sighed and patted the back of his hand on her breast. Old Cletus wasn’t much, but he was hers, and he’d never make serious demands beyond what she was willing to do for him, that was for sure. In fact, falling asleep during his exertions now bothered her more than the nightmare had at the time, and she resolved to try to be sweeter on the morrow. After all, she didn’t want to have to go looking for someone and find only landbound men who would be underfoot every single day and who would want a constantly clean house and body, and _kids_ , on top of all of that. Merciful Christ! She’d never get any peace.

And it was all that damn pirate doxy’s fault for bringing the boy in.

*****

On his way to the docks the morning of their departure, followed by a strangely quiet and even more suspicious Will Turner – if that were possible – Captain Jack Sparrow was explaining how as quartermaster, Gibbs was in charge of gathering a crew and was to meet them with the finest recruits this seafaring paradise had to offer.

Walking along, he didn’t notice the rather large woman until she was right in his path, damn near blocking the sun itself. Jack squinted, trying to remember if he’d skipped out in the middle of the night on this one without paying, alerted by the thunderous expression in her narrowed eyes. Anything was possible, though even with rum he usually had a better memory than this. He cast about for a name, furiously thinking, only noticing too late she was glaring at both him _and_ Will just behind his shoulder.

“Hold this.” She shoved something in his hand, and he had only enough time to notice it was a small greenish banana before something sudden and fist-like clocked across his jaw, sending him back on his ass on the stones, shaking his head. “Homewrecker!” she yelled, before ranting off without her fruit, muttering loudly to herself, and Jack blinked up at young Turner, who was standing over giving him the stinkeye yet again.

He rubbed his jaw and moved his mouth in an effort to see if he still had rooted teeth, and glared at Will. “I get th’ feelin’ someone else deserved that.”


End file.
